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Paper on skin

I work where she worked, write where she wrote, use the same pens, desk… Everyday I see her writing, her numbers, her dates.

I can’t help but to see those dates and think “Little did she know she’d be gone in less than two years…”, “she wrote this months before she died”.

I can’t help but to run my fingers over what she wrote, to feel the impression she left under them, maybe to confirm she’s really gone, maybe to say hello, maybe to wonder how will it be for me, and when.

I’m guessing I’ll be doing it for a while still.

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